


Binary Stars

by Lechatelierite



Category: Star Wars
Genre: Gen, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, with passing reference to Chewbacca and Nera Kase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 08:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lechatelierite/pseuds/Lechatelierite
Summary: Rey sees her own shine, but perhaps she un-named it some time before she came to this island. You can sense that she has already completed some great trial, has already seen the fear that can be mistaken for the dark side itself. “What do I tell her, Obi-Wan?” You ask to no one. You have taken to using your teacher's former name.





	Binary Stars

She reminds you of yourself, doesn’t she? She would have, years ago. Time becomes confused now, events so close and so far away at once, despite the strength you draw when the Force gentles you. You don’t sleep well, now. The girl landed on a day you didn’t sleep at all. 

She’s outside now, building a fire under the overhang of the _Millennium Falcon_. You aren’t sure whether she doesn’t want to run the ship or whether using the massive bulk of it just for warmth didn’t occur to her. You had asked someone on Yavin IV — _asked!_ You shake your head, feel the humid, cool air of the cave. You had asked an actual living person, a woman with a shaved head and a thick datapad, whether the water around the feet of the ziggurat was there _all the time._ It was reassuring to think that Rey would also not assume luxury. Nights, this girl had learned, were certainly dark. 

The Force twisted around her, speculative. She wanted you to train her. The first conversation had been quick, stilted, two desert-born young people testing their surroundings — except you aren’t young, any more. The hair that falls in front of your eyes is darkening and turning gray at the roots. She doesn’t need you to talk to her. You could talk to Chewbacca, maybe; he is a familiar, ordinary face and a balm.

You sit down, run your flesh hand absently over a pile of books newer than the others in your collection. The Caretakers don’t only bring you ancient things. The book on the top of the pile is called _Starpilots of Troublooine._

Rey is destined for something, and you need to stay the kriff away from destiny. 

Her Force presence isn’t like his. Not like Ben’s, that first-born, brightest star in the ragged Republic systems who saw his own brightness and almost immediately searched for more and more ways to douse it. Rey sees her own shine, but perhaps she un-named it. You can sense that she has already completed some great trial, has already seen the fear that can be mistaken for the dark side itself. 

“What do I tell her, Obi-Wan?” You ask to no one. You have taken to using his former name. 

The ghost doesn’t answer. You curl your droid hand on your knee and wonder whether you can smell something burning. The fire, down on the beach. It wouldn’t smell like scorched skin, though, so some of these impressions are your memories getting tangled. You hum, providing your own answer. 

Chewbacca chuffs, and _kriff_ you want to talk to Rey and Chewie. You’re scared, though. You’re scared of the very same thing you were scared of on Tatooine for nineteen years: of being unable to help. Of all your golden glory turning to death and war. You had such _good_ intentions, Luke. You cared so much. 

Rey cares too, you think. The determination in her eyes and the wrinkle in her chin as she clenched her jaw when she presented the lightsaber to you showed how the care overflowed from her. She isn’t as impulsive as you were, though. Yoda would not have seen so much recklessness in her. 

Now that you have become the teacher, you’re afraid of careful power, too. 

You are Luke Skywalker, and you are afraid of many things. 

You stand up. The knitted robes have stuck slightly to your legs in the dampness of the cave, and you brush them away with your uneven hands. You’ll go talk to her again, make something kinder and stronger out of the shattered conversation you set so revealingly in front of her. You’ll keep telling yourself that it doesn’t matter that the smoke smells familiar. 

Maybe tonight, you’ll sleep.


End file.
